The Student's Prayer

Isn’t the library fun at 8pm with the perpetual smell of an impending all-nighter lingering in the room?

Like an out of date pair of socks,
Crusted and withered with age and in need indeed of a happy retirement,
In a clothes bank,
With many nylon woven friends to keep it company.

In their shared worn and warm fondness,
They are loved no more since they worked so hard,
That eventually the job they served became questionable,
And their ability became impaired,

Until eventually,
Like a tired student scratching away at his essay until the dead of night,
The work is done and they can sigh in disharmonious unison at the fruits of their labour,
Then crumple up in the corner of a room - another hard day achieved; another task completed; another rest earned.

Until the next one.